


A Brush With Death

by ResidentOwl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Canonical Character Death, Chick-Flick Moments, Demon Deals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose, Gen, Heaven, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, No Slash, Sam-Centric, Soul Bond, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4123287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ResidentOwl/pseuds/ResidentOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes two days for Dean to break and make a deal with a cross-roads demon to bring back Sam. Two days on Earth for Dean is more than 120 days in Heaven for Sam. 120 days of lies, repetition, desperation, and reluctant acceptance. Heaven can be hell when you're missing a vital piece of yourself.</p><p>...</p><p>"It was my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job…. I had one job…"</p><p>And Dean had failed, he had failed so badly. The cold two day old body of his little brother, the one that was his to protect since Dean carried him out of the fire, could attest to his negligence.</p><p>"And I screwed it up."</p><p>Sam was dead.</p><p>"I blew it."</p><p>And Dean wasn't there to protect him.</p><p>"And for that, I'm sorry."</p><p>He hoped that somehow, Sam could hear him, could hear how sorry he was for messing it up, and could maybe find it in himself to forgive Dean. Maybe Sam could hear the hundreds of the ways he was trying to say, 'I love you,' and the thousands of ways he was trying to say, 'I'm sorry.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brush With Death

A beautiful blue sky greeted Sam when his eyes snapped open.

He could feel the bright summer sun warming his skin, the soft prickle of neatly cut grass against the denim of his jeans, the thick quilt beneath his hands and a warm delicate hand gently threading through his hair.

Jerking into a sitting position, Sam's hand groped to the small of his back, searching for Jake's knife wound, but his hand met smooth skin.

Nothing. Not even a scar.

"Geez, Sam. Are my scalp massages that bad?"

Sam froze, that voice, that achingly familiar voice, he hadn't expected to hear it again after what happened, after his last memory of her was burning on the ceiling of their apartment, droplets of blood splattering on him in a silent accusation.

"…Sam? Is everything alright?"

He couldn't turn around, he couldn't bring himself to shatter the beautiful illusion or dream or whatever it was. He yearned to just let himself bask in this moment, and believe it was real for just another minute before it twisted into another nightmare.

A thin hand rested gingerly on his shoulder, reassuring him with her presence; Sam couldn't resist cupping her hand gently in his own, large, calloused and tan contrasting starkly with her smooth pale skin.

"Another bad dream?" A quiet query, not assuming anything other than what Sam presented at face value.

Nostalgia filled Sam with lingering affection and regret, half forgotten memories of nightmares in their shared bed and her quietly talking about inconsequential things while lacing a hand through his hair in reassurance that everything was alright.

But things weren't alright.

"Yeah." The word caught in his throat, and he coughed to clear the imagined blockage, "Yeah. Just a dream."

She seemed to hesitate for just a moment, before patting his shoulder firmly and removing her hand. "Well, I have a major biology test tomorrow. And I know you, sir, have that philosophy class bright and early in the morning, I don't know why you couldn't take it at any other time than the ass crack of dawn." She mumbled the last bit to herself as she hopped up, dusting off any imagined grass and dirt.

Sam could feel her presence moving behind him, could hear her making the motions of getting ready to leave, but he refused to turn around. She always knew when he needed normalcy more that platitudes, just another reason he fell in love with her.

He felt the quilt under him being tugged harshly in a vain attempt to get him up.

"Come. On. You. Big. Lug." She gritted out through clenched teeth, straining every word with a mighty tug of the edge of the brightly colored quilt she held.

Sam couldn't resist anymore. All her actions, her words spoke of times of peace and love, which he had all but tucked away in the back of his mind in the past couple years.

He turned around.

Her hair shone in the summer sun, glinting reddish brown highlights through the blonde. She wore a familiar dark red Stanford shirt and jeans, her cherry red converse clashing garishly with the shirt, and she had one of those perpetual half smiles on her face that rarely ever faded.

"Jessica," Sam breathed. She shot him a warm grin that hinted mischief and a bit of worry, purely her smile, one Sam hadn't expected to see ever again.

She was as beautiful as the day Sam lost her.

Grabbing her hand tightly in his, he reached up and caressed her cheek with thumb of his other hand. The worry in her eyes became a bit more prominent, but she said nothing as Sam's eyes watered with unshed tears; she tilted her head into his warm calloused palm, smiling contentedly.

If this was a dream, Sam wanted to stay just a little while longer.

-oOo-

It was a few days before Sam felt the first Flicker. It wasn't much, just a repeated conversation, one he vaguely remembered having before in their apartment in real life. It was a strong sense of deja vu, as if he was following a carefully scripted scene and didn't know it. He disregarded the suspicion that tied intricate knots in his stomach, he was dreaming a wonderfully vivid dream that had yet to be twisted in a nightmare and he'd be damned if he ruined it now because of a suspicion.

Sam vaguely remembered Dean, the feeling of molten fire piercing his spine, the warmth of Dean's arms wrapping around his shoulders, Dean shouting his name through what felt like miles water. He had closed his eyes, not being able to scrounge up the energy to tell Dean it'll be alright, there had been a distant flap of bird wings and nothing. It all felt faded, distant, like a half-forgotten memory, all just in a few days. Then Sam had woken up here, with Jessica, in Palo Alto.

But something was wrong. Something was missing, and he couldn't put his finger on what.

"…Sam? Is everything alright?"

A hand on his shoulder, they were on the brightly colored quilt in the park close to their apartment again. Another perfect sunny day in Summer.

"Another bad dream?" A quiet question.

"Yeah." Sam swallowed thickly around the tightness in his throat.

_Something is wrong._

"Yeah. Just a dream."

She hesitated, her fingers rubbing soothingly on the skin of his shoulder, she felt cold despite the heat from the sun. "Well, I have a major biology test tomorrow. And I know you have that philosophy class bright and early in the morning."

Sam said nothing, all of this was so familiar, but he couldn't say why.

"I don't know why you couldn't take it at any other time than the ass crack of dawn." She mumbled the last bit to herself.

The quilt was being tugged out from under him, again.

_Again?_

"Come. On. You. Big. Lug." She strained every word with a great yank of the quilt.

_Something is wrong._

Sam got up, and turned around toward what he thought was Jessica. The distinct feeling of perverted wrongness tightened the knots in his stomach, and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Jessica never missed an opportunity to tease him about his 'confused puppy eyes.'

Sam stared at her, scrutinizing her movements, her reactions, everything about her that looked so right at first, the idiosyncrasies that now haunted Sam with a pervasive sense of wrongness.

She Flickered.

Her eyes died, clouded for a millisecond, and her movements stopped for less than that; she held herself in an unnatural cold stillness that stole the air from Sam's lungs.

"…Sam? Is everything alright?"

A delicate hand ghosted over his shoulder, her eyebrows furrowed over superficially worried eyes; he shuddered from the cold perverted nature of it.

Sam was off script.

She wasn't Jessica.

-oOo-

Another Flicker happened last night, an imperfection in the programing, and a fifth reset of the same weekend all over again, the same conversations, the same events over and over. It was day fifteen in where ever the hell he was.

It had been a real perfect weekend in Sam's memories with Jessica, a week of careless happiness when almost everything was ideal, from the weather to their grades. Now it had twisted into a perverted time loop where he was forced to act out the scene with a empty husk designed to act like his dead girlfriend.

He had tried everything to escape. He'd run away just to reach the city limits and wake up from a 'bad dream' next to Not-Jessica. He called Dean, Bobby, John, Pastor Jim, Caleb, anyone on his phone that he'd yet to see in this illusion, even if he knew they were dead in reality. After all, if his dead girlfriend was here, why wouldn't they be? But there was nothing, just static.

He'd even tried old summoning and banishing spells he barely remembered from when he was a kid. John had forced him to memorize a book on witchcraft spells so he could recognize them when they were hunting one, he was maybe ten at the time, no problem. Sam bet that John never suspected that he would ever be forced to use the spells himself, wouldn't have given him the book if that was the case; he was probably rolling in his grave or hell or wherever he was right now. But even those half-assed spells didn't work.

Now, he didn't know what to think. Even with the wrongness of the scripted scene right in front of him, he still felt some part of him, his very soul, was missing.

He didn't know what else to do.

Sam wished that Dean was here.

-oOo-

Sam shot awake, he was on his bed again in the carbon copy of the apartment he had shared with Jessica in Palo Alto. Not-Jessica turned over in her sleep on the other side of the bed.

Tears burned his eyes, he couldn't escape from this, he always ended up back here. Not even after a sixty days, nothing changed. Unwillingly, his hand reached down between the mattress and box spring, pulling out a hunting knife with a trembling hand, one he had bought for their safety when he and Jessica first moved in. Every detail of this illusion was meant to be perfect, including the props available, it was all taken from that one beautiful weekend.

He deftly unsheathed the knife, the rays of the moon reflecting wickedly off the sharp edge. Sam turned toward Not-Jessica, the knife moving forward inadvertently, the moonlight slanting through the partially closed blinds highlighted her exposed pale neck and his own wrist.

Not-Jessica blinked awake and Flickered. Sam was off script again.

"…Sam? Is everything alright?"

_Again. Can't she say something different?_

The muscles in his arm tensed, tears blurred Sam's eyes. All it would take was a moment, a jerk of his arm, and then it could be over. He wouldn't be on a thrice-damned script anymore, he wouldn't have to repeat this empty, lonely hell.

"Another bad dream?" Her eyes furrowed with superficial worry that couldn't veil the emptiness in her actions; her hand was cold when it touched his shoulder.

Just a moment.

Just one movement.

Then it'd be over.

"Don't worry. You'll be okay. Just wait and see."

Sam dropped the knife and broke. Tears streamed down his cheeks in earnest, sobs ripped their way out of his throat despite the hands over his mouth trying to keep them in. It was all just too much.

Even if it was  _Not-Jessica,_ he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Another hand reached around his shoulders to pull him into an embrace, but he wouldn't let that happen. It wasn't Jessica, it was just an empty husk designed to look and act like her, just a well made facsimile, and he wouldn't let himself be comforted by the thing that was tearing him apart inside.

Sam jumped up, unsteady from the cloying emotion, and ran through the apartment out the front door. He took a moment to breath in the cool, humid air, taking several long minutes to calm down, absentmindedly thanking God that Not-Jessica didn't follow him.

In that one moment, he was glad Dean wasn't there.

He wouldn't be able to handle a Not-Dean.

There was a flap of bird wings, and everything went black.

Sam shot awake in bed, sheets twisting around him, tears burned his eyes. A hand rested on his shoulder.

"Another bad dream?"

_Dean, please._

-oOo-

"Did I die?"

Blue skies and sunny days greeted Sam in the park, on a quilt, with Not-Jessica, once again. It was warm, it was sickly sweet, it was 'perfect,' there wasn't much else to say, just that it was never any different.

She Flickered, her hand threading through his hair stopped with an unnatural stillness and the air turned cold.

"…Sam? Is everything alright?"

"I did, didn't I. The knife… I died in Dean's arms." Sam mumbled to himself with sudden realization, staring at his hands that had fallen from clutching his brother's back when he'd faded away, he could almost feel Dean's warmth in his palms.

"Another bad dream?"

"I'm dead."

_And Dean's alive. Oh, God. He has to be okay._

There was a flap of wings and blackness encroached upon his vision.

-oOo-

_So this is heaven._

Sam turned to face the facsimile of Jessica next to him on the quilt. Empty eyes, empty expression, and another Flicker. Sam sighed, scrubbing a hand tiredly on his face, and ignored Not-Jessica's first inquiry.

He'd always expected to be dragged down stairs kicking and screaming, all the freaky Carrie powers and being one of Yellow Eyes' chosen effectively earmarking him for the skin melting flames of hell, after all nothing good could ever come from being a demon's ideal champion for whatever it had planned. But here he was, in 'paradise.' Not exactly what he's expected, with the repeated scenes and predictable scripts, more of a psychological torture than any 'afterlife.'

The Flickers have been happening more often now that Sam could barely scrounge up the energy to relive the same conversations and events over and over again. The feeling of emptiness, of something essential missing, has become more prominent as the days passed.

A cold hand on his shoulder. "Another bad dream?"

_I wonder if hell's any better._

-oOo-

Scraps of paper and clothes were strewn across the floor of the apartment, encroaching on the walk space of the bedroom, hall and living room. Sam was currently rifling through his jeans drawer, discarding the formerly folded laundry on the floor, it would just reset in the morning anyway. Not-Jessica was making dinner, she won't call him to the table for another thirteen minutes and forty seconds; she wouldn't react to the mess except with another Flicker, he learned that after he destroyed all the furniture one repeat.

The emptiness, loneliness, or whatever you want to call it, the feeling of his internal organs tying themselves into knots, that a section of his soul was torn out and left in an unreachable dimension, had become more persistent and distracting in the last couple repeats.

He'd tried everything, within reasonable boundaries, to alleviate the soul deep ache, but nothing helped, but that was beside the point. Right now, all Sam wanted was to find one of those buried memories of his life before Stanford. He had kept them well hidden, collecting dust in forgotten corners, and at the times he needed them, he couldn't remember where he had stashed them.

Thumbing through his sock drawer, he found a pair of atrocious mustard yellow socks adorned with adorable kitten faces in cyan and pink shoved to the back. Sam couldn't help but smile at the hideous things, they had been a graduation present from Dean all those years ago, and Sam had kept the thing despite himself.

Just another precious memory lost to the Yellow Eyed Demon.

Sam was going to set the 'fugly' things, as Dean would say, back carefully inside the drawer when he heard a crinkling noise, like the crumpling of old paper. Gingerly unfolding the balled up socks, and unearthed a couple of faded photographs.

Tears welled up unbidden in Sam's eyes. This was what he was searching for.

The first photo was of his Mother, Mary, heavy with child; a tiny four year old Dean clung to the leg of her pants, and a much younger John supporting his wife with a hand on the small of her back. They were looking at Mary's swollen belly, little Dean held a look of confused wonder, John of nervous anticipation, and Mary's gaze was filled with an unconditional love that only a mother could understand.

He flipped to the next photo before he could become too engrossed and emotional in the happy moment for their family, a brief moment when they all felt safe and loved.

The second photo was of Dean and him sitting on the hood of the Impala that glistened in the sunlight after a tune-up and waxing. Dean was maybe sixteen, wearing that too-big worn leather jacket that used to be John's, he was nursing a watered down beer, sending a young twelve year old Sam a fond exasperated glare while his body was posed like a model. Young Sam was obviously laughing, holding a soda bottle in one hand and pointing at Dean with the other, feet propped up in the bumper.

Sam chuckled softly to himself, he remembered the day Bobby dusted off an old ass camera and brought it out to snap pictures of the two of them working on the car. After the Yellow-Eyed Demon killed Mary and sent John on a hunt for vengeance, John rarely took photos of the family except for their covers and official reasons, it had been deemed unimportant like so many other little things.

Now that Sam thought about it, this was probably one of the only photos from their teenage years. As soon as Dean was in front of a camera, he'd struck a ridiculous 'sexy' pose, carefully constructing his position into something that would show off his 'muscles.' Sam couldn't resist poking fun at Dean's model face and laughing at the poses since no one beside them will ever see the photos.

Sam smiled, that had been another beautifully perfect day, John had taken one of Bobby's cars to collect information a haunting a few towns over, leaving the boys to tune-up the Impala and help Bobby with research. It had been an easy, careless day for both him and Dean, one of the few he could remember from his childhood.

Sam's gaze wandered past the Impala in the image, absently noting the uneven gravel road leading into Bobby's salvage yard.

"Dinner! Come on, Sam, time to feed your gigantic body!" Not-Jessica called from the kitchen.

Sam turned around to shout back, but he was brought up short, he froze, trying to comprehend what his eyes were processing.

He wasn't in the apartment anymore. Hell, Sam wasn't even in California.

Sam was standing on the uneven gravel road leading into Bobby's yard, the impala, filthy with encrusted mud and baked grasshopper remnants, warming in the heat of the autumn sun.

He spun around, disoriented for a moment, but Not-Palo Alto had vanished, and he was now in Sioux Falls.

"Sammy!"

A piece of himself he felt missing suddenly clicked into place, the persistent ache in his chest vanished, his heart soared at the familiar voice, and Sam turned to greet his older brother, throw his arms around him, anything.

His heart plummeted as quickly as it lifted, his soul ripped itself back into shreds, and chest deep ache returned with a vengeance.

"Quit slacking, Sammy! We've got work to do." Sixteen year old Dean, thumped a hand on Sam's shoulder that was more than a head higher than Dean, apparently he didn't notice that his twelve year old midget of a brother was suddenly 6'4'' and twenty-four.

Not-Dean shoved Sam forward, toward the filthy majestic Impala, oblivious to Sam's shell shocked demeanor and inner turmoil.

"Come on, Bitch. She ain't gonna wash herself."

He sauntered past Sam's still form, patting his back roughly, and kicked half-heartedly at a bucket of soapy water and a rag to emphasis his point.

"Jerk." Sam whispered to himself.

He didn't know if he could handle Not-Dean on repeat for a hundred and sixteen days like with Not-Jessica, but maybe it was a bit better for the moment, something different from the predictable, tiresome script of the Not-Palo Alto scene.

Sam peered down at the two precious photos still clutched in his hand, and gingerly slid them into the back pocket of his jeans before moving forward to grab the rag and bucket.

"'bout time! She's not getting any cleaner with you just staring at her."

"Shut it, Jerk."

There was another flap of wings, but Sam paid no mind as he traded a familiar banter with sixteen year old Not-Dean. The emptiness, the ache was still there deep in his chest, but panicked need to make himself whole had eased just a bit.

-oOo-

Sam nursed his soda, chortling at Dean's comical 'sexy' posing while working on the Impala, and Bobby shot a few pictures for future blackmail. He basked in the simplicity of the moment for his family, letting his gaze drift across the ruins of obsolete vehicles beyond repair, and his eyes focused on something decidedly different from the small mountains of twisted rusty metal.

There was someone out in the yard, staring inscrutably at Sam, his dark suit jacket rustled in the cool breeze, but he remained with an unnatural stillness.

Standing up from the porch step, Sam tried to get a better look at the guest, he didn't remember a hunter or anyone intruding on this day, especially not one wearing a suit, of all thing, to the Salvage Yard.

The character in the distance seemed to frown, tilting his head to the side, heedless of the cold gale that weaved around the twisted metal mountains, no doubt cutting through the cheap looking suit jacket with little resistance.

"Jesus! That's cold!" Not-Dean shouted from under the hood of the Impala, he had taken his jacket off despite Sam's warnings about the cold front.

Sam jerked his head in Not-Dean's direction, distracted from the being hovering in the yard.

There was a flap of wings that Sam could barely heard over the winds howling and whistling when pushed through the crevices between the rusted car stacks.

Sam turned back toward the stranger, but he had vanished.

 

-oOo-

 

"I just wanted you to be a kid… Just for a little while longer."

Dean said the words quietly, staring down at the cold grey body of his little brother, but he could feel that it wasn't really his brother anymore, not the one he carried out of their burning house, not the one that declared he was leaving the 'family business' and going to Stanford for law, and not the one that made Dean promise to kill him if he ever went off the reservation.

…

_"I need you to watch out for me," Sam said unsteadily as Dean heaved him to his feet and a wave of dizziness overcame him._

_"Yeah, I always do." Dean reassured flippantly, just trying to get Sam asleep and safe in bed before he would say something they both would regret._

_There was a time that Sam was a happy, goofy drunk that liked making jokes about Scooby-Doo episodes he barely remembered from his childhood of bad black and white TVs in their sleazy motel rooms. But now, all this tragedy and talk about destiny with Ol' Yellow Eyes, who could blame him for being downright depressing when he's plastered._

_…_

"I always tried to protect you… keep you safe…Dad didn't even have to tell me."

Dean continued to gaze inscrutably at the body that used to hold so much life, that used to house his brother. His words were more of a prayer now, trying to reach out to the being that was his Sammy, his little brother, where ever he was.

Who was he kidding, of course his kind, caring, little brother was in heaven, racking it up with the angels he always believed in, where else would he go?

Certainly not where Dean was going.

…

_"No! No, no, no. You have to watch out for me, alright?" Sam pushed off Dean's supporting arm, standing unsteadily by himself, but with his big brother ready to reach out to support him if he fell. If that wasn't a damn metaphor, Dean didn't know what it was._

_Dean tried to duck under his other arm before Sam could face plant, but a suddenly clear eyed Sam blocked his advances._

_"And if I ever… turn into something I'm not…"_

_Don't say it. Please don't say it, Sammy._

_"You have to kill me."_

_"Sam," Dean tried his best to act dismissive, but his soul screamed and bucked in denial of what Sam was asking of him. He couldn't deal with this right now. He couldn't deal with this ever._

_He turned away, just wanting to get Sam in bed, so they could both forget about it in the morning. Jesus, he needed a drink. But Sam shoved Dean's shoulder so he was face to face with Sam's thrice-damned earnest eyes._

_"Dean! Dad told you to do it, you have to."_

_Sam was always going to be the death of him, one way or the other._

_…_

"It was my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job…. I had one job…"

And Dean had failed, he had failed so badly. The cold two day old body of his little brother, the one that was his to protect since Dean carried him out of the fire, could attest to his negligence.

"And I screwed it up."

Sam was dead.

"I blew it."

And Dean wasn't there to protect him.

"And for that, I'm sorry."

He hoped that somehow, Sam could hear him, could hear how sorry he was for messing it up, and could maybe find it in himself to forgive Dean.  Maybe Sam could hear the hundreds of the ways he was trying to say, 'I love you,' and the thousands of ways he was trying to say, 'I'm sorry.'

…

_"Yeah, well, Dad's an ass."_

_Sam didn't know how much it hurt when he turned his confused eyes on Dean. John had always been an ass, one who tried his best to raise them, but still an ass. Sam used to claim that John wasn't always right, why couldn't he just say the same thing this time and be done with it?_

_"He never should have said anything. I mean, you don't do that, you don't, you don't lay that kind of crap on your kids."_

_Dean was pissed, yes John saved his life, yes John raised him and Sam, yes John loved them, but, damn it, if he'd never said anything, never given that last freakin' order, they wouldn't be having this conversation._

_"No. He was right to say it! Who knows what I might become? Even now, everyone around me dies!" Sam's hand cut through the air in frustration, he was shouting now, clearly not understanding what Dean was trying to say._

_Dean looked away, he couldn't take this, hearing Sam's self-depreciating remarks, hearing just how little faith Sam has in himself and his choices, and how he doesn't trust Dean to keep him on the straight and narrow. He knew how hard everything was for Sam recently, from Jessica to the crap with Yellow Eyes, but did he understand what he was asking Dean to do?_

_Dean met Sam's eyes again, trying to reassure him or make him just_ stop talking _, Dean didn't know._

_"Yeah, well, I'm not dying, okay?"_

_Dean won't die, not while Sam's around to protect._

_"And neither are you."_

_And he won't let Sam go either._

_…_

"I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let Dad down."

Dean laid John down on the pyre, he lit the match himself, feeling the lighter fluid catch and spread. He stood so close to the flames that the heat dried his tears before they could fall, he couldn't let them fall, Dean had to be strong for Sam.

"And now, I guess, I'm just supposed to let you down, too."

He didn't want to burn his baby brother. He couldn't. Two days, and he still couldn't bring himself to do it.

"How can I? How am I supposed to live with that?"

…

_"No, please! Dean, you're the only one who can do it. Promise."_

_"Don't ask that of me." Dean tried to sound gruff and irritated with drunk Sammy's antics, he didn't quite succeed. If Sam was in his right mind, he would have seen how his request, his insecurities, were tearing Dean to pieces._

_"Dean, please. You have to promise me."_

_Oh, God, Sammy was begging, pleading with Dean to kill him if the time came, to make the call whether Sam did more bad than good. Sam was looking up at him from the bed with those damn earnest, pleading, eyes again, asking for Dean to reassure him, demanding Dean to make a promise he could never keep._

_"I promise."_

_Screw that. Screw destiny. Screw fate. Screw all the demons and the supernatural._

_"Thank you."_

_They can all go fuck themselves._

_It's Sam and Dean against the world._

_And it always will be._

_…_

"What am I supposed to do? Sammy."

_How am I supposed to keep going without you here._

"What am I supposed to do?"

There had to be something. Something other than burn his baby brother, his responsibility, to ashes and hope the memories of his failure won't haunt him until the day he wastes away.

"WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO!"

There was something. No doubt Sammy would hate him for it, but he didn't know what it was like to lose a brother, what it was like to be separated from a piece of yourself. It was like his feet had been cut out from under him, like he had no reason to move forward anymore.

It'll be okay, though.

He was going to hell anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a light-hearted one shot about puns, but my angst meter went out of control, sorry. I don't write light-hearted very well anyway. I know I should be working on my other series, but as I said, it was supposed to be 3 pages and now I have this.
> 
> The last scene with Dean held two of the most important (I believe) conversations from season 2, the one with drunk Sam was from 2x11, and Dean's monologue was from 2x22. Sorry if it turned out a bit clunky and confusing, Dean is a bit difficult to write for me.
> 
> Comments and Critiques are appreciated.
> 
> -Rezz


End file.
